Page 128 of The Words Beneath the Noise

Twenty-one hundred hours, summoned by terse note, arrived to find him poring over a stack of intercepts spread across his desk. Peter's photograph sat at the top of the pile now, cheerful smile frozen in official documentation that predated whatever he'd become.

“Sit.” Not a request. Never a request with Finch.

Sat. Waited. Learned years ago that silence made people uncomfortable enough to fill it, and right now I needed whatever information Finch was willing to share.

“Miss Adler and Mr Pembroke brought me intelligence that changes the nature of our investigation.” Finch tapped the intercepts. “Over the past ten days, German traffic has included repeated references to a source codenamedRabennest. Raven's nest. Each mention coincides with intelligence leaks from this estate.”

He slid a document across the desk. “Convoy routes that were ambushed. Patrol schedules that were anticipated. Timingof shift changes. Small details, individually. Collectively, a pattern of systematic betrayal.”

“And they've identified the source?”

“Lance Corporal Peter Rowe. Cipher clerk in Hut X.” Finch pulled out Peter's personnel file. “East End lad. Family bombed out in the Blitz. Parents killed. Younger sister billeted with relatives, depending on whatever money he can send her.”

My gut clenched. Art had mentioned Peter's circumstances before. The bitterness when he talked about the government. The boots he couldn't afford that suddenly appeared on his feet. The friend in town who could get things.

“How did they connect him to the intercepts?”

“The German traffic includes a source identifier. A series of letters and numbers that should be meaningless.” Finch's jaw tightened, as if the next words cost him something. “Pembroke recognised it. The sequence matches a filing system Rowe created for tracking message traffic through Hut X. His personal organisational quirk, appearing in enemy communications.”

“Christ.”

“Indeed.” Finch spread more papers across the desk. “But it gets worse. Last night's intercepts included this.”

He pushed a decoded message toward me. I read it, feeling the cold settle deeper into my bones with each word.

“They're planning an attack.”

“On this estate. Pembroke cross-referenced the coordinates embedded in earlier traffic. They place the target designation within five miles of where we're sitting.” Finch leaned back. “Miss Bennett has also been detecting unusual signal patterns at night. Repeated bursts, precise timing. Pembroke believes it's a ground beacon, something to guide bombers to our exact location.”

“And Peter's been activating it.”

“That's the theory. His shift schedule aligns with the signal detections. His access to operational intelligence explains what the Germans know. And his desperation...” Finch shook his head. “Black market connections. Extra income. Someone smart enough to exploit that could turn a man looking for money into an intelligence asset without him fully realising how deep he'd gone.”

I thought about Peter offering me cigarettes that first week. The easy grin. The self-deprecating jokes about just bashing the keys while the clever ones did the real work. All of it a mask. Or maybe not a mask. Maybe just a man who'd compartmentalised so thoroughly he could smile at colleagues he was helping to kill.

“The seventy-two hour window. When did that intercept come through?”

“Last night. Which means we have approximately sixty hours before whatever they're planning reaches execution phase.” Finch closed the files. “I need proof. Concrete evidence. Catch him in the act, ideally. Which means surveillance. Which means you.”

“You want me to watch him.”

“I want you to follow him. Note his movements. And if he attempts to pass information or activate that beacon, I want you to stop him. By whatever means necessary.” Meaningful pause. “Your combat experience makes you uniquely qualified for this particular assignment.”

Whatever means necessary. Code for violence authorised. For soldier instead of guard. For weapon instead of man.

Felt that familiar shift happening again, personality sliding into the role I'd been trained for. Observing threats. Planning intercepts. Preparing to engage.

“When do I start?”

“Now. Rowe's currently in Hut X, finishing a late shift. Shadow him when he leaves. Don't engage unless absolutelynecessary. Just observe and report.” Finch stood, terminating the briefing. “And Sergeant? If this goes wrong, if he gets warning and destroys evidence or alerts his handlers, we may never prove what he's done. And we may trigger the very attack we're trying to prevent. Subtlety is critical.”

“Understood.”

“One more thing.” Finch's voice stopped me at the door. “Pembroke's analysis was... impressive. Despite everything. His pattern recognition identified connections my own investigators missed.” The words seemed to cost him. “You might tell him that, if you see him.”

Closest thing to an apology Art would ever get from this man. I nodded once and left.

Headed for Hut X, keeping to shadows, moving with the tactical awareness that had kept me alive through three years of situations far more dangerous than this. Snow muffled my footsteps, blackout regulations meant minimal lighting, and the moon was barely a sliver behind thick clouds.